


Pay No Mind To the Rabble

by Whreflections



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Blood, Death, F/M, I consider all of the barricade boys/our girls major characters so just, I'll leave it at that, M/M, Zombies, and by major character death remember, and then the zombie apocalypse hits, bottomjolras, but they are present in the background, most of those ships are just mentioned, so basically the barricade boys are in modern day Paris, there are dead people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The zombie apocalypse has taken Paris as wholly as it has the rest of the world, and though Enjolras had only ever led his friends in protests and rallies, he's now been thrust into the position of leading them in a world that's a hell of a lot more dangerous.  It's taking its toll on him just like it is everyone else, and he has his regrets, though none of them are as great as the sickness he feels knowing that it took the end of the world for him to make Grantaire a priority.  Now that he has, though, he'll do everything he can to prove it, to Grantaire, and to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I finish season 3 of Walking Dead while e/R is still ruling my brain. (Who am I kidding, e/R is going to be ruling my brain for a long, long time, lmao) 
> 
> This is only part one, but I am 99.99% sure that unlike my omegaverse fic, this will literally just be two parts. I am far less sure it will be the only fic in this verse, because this is fucking fun even though it's also horrible, but we'll see how it goes.

Already, Enjolras was sick of the smell of gasoline.  He’d spilled hardly more than a drop on his hand and yet it seemed to have wholly permeated his skin, sinking in and rising out.  He shook his head, felt around in his pocket for the book of matches he’d shoved in his jeans on his way out the door.  Turning, he held them out to the three closest behind him.  They deserved the chance to choose, and besides, he felt too drenched in gasoline. 

Coureyrac shook his head once, his eyes rimmed red, jaw still slightly quivering.  It was enough that he was there, shoulders hunched, hands crammed far as they could go into his pockets.  Blood peeked from the bits that wouldn’t fit, coloring his wrists, drying dark against denim at the tops of his pockets.  Enjolras looked away, to Eponine where she stood pulled tight against Combeferre’s side.  For a moment he wasn’t sure she’d take them either, but then she nodded, reached up to gently prise Combeferre’s fingers from her shoulder.  He let her go with some reluctance, worry clear in his eyes though she didn’t look back to see it.  Her eyes were on the matches in her hand, on the little body sprawled on the cobblestones. 

Courfeyrac had closed Gavroche’s eyes, but it had mattered little; he could hardly look as if he was sleeping now, his throat a bloody mess where it had been ripped open.  He’d barely had the chance to scream before he couldn’t, before it was nothing but gurgling and Courfeyrac had thrown himself at the walkers holding him, but it was too late, too late for anything.  Gavroche was dead before he hit the ground, long before Courfeyrac could dispatch the walkers and scoop his body up.  It would have been hard enough to lose him, but it was worse still to know that like Jehan he died alone, on the wrong side of the barricade.  Each loss hit the group hard, but with Jehan’s death barely a month past and now this, Courfeyrac had been dealt a heavier blow than any of them. 

Enjolras took his place beside him as Eponine struck her match, silent until the dropped it to set eager flames flickering across her brother’s body. 

“I’m so sorry.  Gavroche-“

“Died trying to pick guns from corpses, and if we don’t get the _hell_ out of here, he won’t be the last of us to die picking bodies like a damn vulture!”

Enjolras set his shoulders, kept his eyes on the flames.  Let Courfeyrac yell at him, if he wanted, if it helped.  “I didn’t ask him to go over the barricade, Courfeyrac.  He did that on his own.  We do our best, but we’re running low on just about everything.  You know that.  He was only trying to help.”

“No, you’re right; we are running out of everything.”  Courfeyrac turned half away from the flames, tore his bloodied hands from his pockets to yank Enjolras around to face him.  “We are fish in a barrel here, Enjolras, and more than supplies we are running out of _time_.  If enough walkers come through Saint Michel, we won’t hold that barricade, not now, and certainly not if we keep getting picked off like this.  This isn’t a defensible position anymore; it’s a death trap.” 

Enjolras’ eyes flickered around the group arrayed around the burning body, all of them listening and all of them doing their best to keep their eyes off their leader’s argument and on the flames.  He twisted his arm until he broke Courfeyrac’s grip, reaching for a hold of his own to jerk hard at the front of Courfeyrac’s shirt and pull him over out of the way, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he answered. 

“You think I don’t know the trouble we’re in here?  Believe me; I’m abundantly aware.  If you recall, it’s why we’re limiting gunfire; you’re not wrong about the walkers.  We’ve seen more in the past month than we did in the three before it, but what other choice do you think we have?  Staying here, it’s a struggle, and no, I can’t promise you we’re going to survive this, but if we leave?  I _can_ just about promise you we won’t last a week.” 

Breathing hard, a mess of anger and grief, Courfeyrac half stumbled back from Enjolras’ hold, turning to slam his fist against the wall of the Musain.  The first shock as it held firm only made him hit harder, though with the second he went nearly limp, leaned forward to rest his head against his arm.  Muffled as they were by his skin, his words sounded even lower, more exhausted. 

“When they left, Valjean told us we’d all be welcome to follow.” 

Reflexively, Enjolras cast a glance over his shoulder, his eyes for a moment meeting Grantaire’s at the back of the crowd.  He had his flask to his lips, though he froze the moment their eyes met.  Impressive, considering Enjolras could see from the slight list in his stance and the looseness of his limbs, he was already drunk and likely had been since he’d wandered off after his attempt to help Combeferre calm Courfeyrac in the immediate aftermath of Gavroche’s death.  Well, so be it.  To his credit, he hadn’t been drunk in weeks.  He wasn’t on watch, wasn’t carrying a gun.  Considering the circumstances, Enjolras didn’t have the energy to reproach him. 

He looked away, stepped in close enough that he almost whispered against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, for his ears alone.  “You have to know it kills me to say it, but if the group of us stands no chance crossing Paris as she is, and you know we don’t, how could the four of them have made it, hm?  Do you really think they could make the distance on foot?”  Courfeyrac flinched, shoulder tense as Enjolras tightened his grip.  “Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe they made it.  But say they did, how on earth could the four of them take La Sante, even with Javert’s tricks?” 

“You think Marius is dead then.”  It sounded too flat for a question, too raw and hollow, and Enjolras’ hand against his shoulder tightened convulsively.  _Fuck_ , he hadn’t thought that quite through.  Of all times to be telling the man he suspected his best friend had gone down long ago, now was just about the worst moment he could’ve chosen. 

He slipped his arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, hesitant until he didn’t shrug it off.  When he didn’t, Enjolras leaned into the contact, holding on and shaking him lightly. 

“Listen, I hope not, God I hope not.  I hope I’m wrong.  You know Marius; he’s got the luck of the devil.”  If nothing else, that at least got him a strangled sound, an attempt at laughter.  “All I meant was it’s a chance I don’t think we can afford, same as it wasn’t when they asked us to come.  We decided to stay then, and I don’t think we were wrong.”  Not that Enjolras hadn’t asked himself that question a hundred times, that bright June afternoon playing over and over every time they were forced to repair the barricade, every time they struggled. 

It hadn’t been long after the outbreak that Cosette had showed up at the barricade with her parents, both of which had agreed to accompany her to Saint Michel only because she refused to follow _them_ without Marius.  It had been a joyful reunion at first, everyone overjoyed that Cosette had made it, that they were all together again, but it hadn’t lasted.  Javert insisted their stance was indefensible, the barricade too easily breached if the walkers ever came upon it in force, and though at first Valjean had tried to pacify him, he’d been convinced.  By the end of the summer, they made plans to strike out for La Sante prison where Javert had spent 20 years as a guard, hoping they could find some protection behind its walls. 

Enjolras had seen only all the ground to cover between the café and the prison, all the walkers that might stalk its halls if they reached it.  The group had voted, but in reality, Enjolras had been the one to make the decision.  However much had changed about their old lives, his ability to give a persuasive speech remained intact.  He had appealed to their reason, and they had decided to stay, and nearly every day since he watched their hold grow more precarious, and he questioned.  The voice of doubt was a sinister thing, whispering that had they gone, Bossuet might not have died protecting Joly, Jehan might not have been surrounded on his way back from a run, Gavroche-

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose between the fingers of his free hand, breathing deep.  He couldn’t let himself start that; they couldn’t afford it.  If they’d gone, they could all be dead, likely would have been.  No matter how little he liked it, he had to think in numbers, not names.  So far, he had three dead and eight living; it was those eight lives he had to concern himself with. 

“We couldn’t risk it before; I don’t think we can risk it now.  That doesn’t mean Marius is dead, Courfeyrac, it just means they took a dangerous road.  For all we know, they realized it and holed up somewhere else.  We have a place, here.  That’s not something to be lightly thrown aside.  That said-“  Enjolras leaned closer to the wall, catching his eye.  “I meant what I said.  You aren’t wrong about the amount of walkers we’ve been seeing.  If you think we should go, then find a real alternative, and propose _that_.  You manage that, and we’ll discuss it as a group.  Until we have a concrete option that doesn’t sound like a suicide run, we stay here.  Understood?”

The nod he got was hardly more than a bow of his head, but it was enough.  With the times they were in, he’d gotten used to taking what he could get.  Returning a nod of his own he almost slipped away, drew himself up short to press his hand once more to Courfeyrac’s back, lightly. 

“I am sorry; you have to know that.  I loved the boy myself.  I never would have wanted-“

“I know, Enjolras.  I know.” 

Deep down, he’d already known Courfeyrac didn’t blame him; none of them would.  They never did, and he expected they’d only be surprised to learn how much he blamed himself.  It had been one thing to lead them in protest, to speak of politics and rights and freedom, but they had followed him into the end of the world, and every day the mantle of that trust grew heavier.    If he could have known it would come to this…

Exhausted, he slipped away, kept to the shadows cast by the Musain as he made his way back to the front door.  At the barricade, Feuilly and Bahorel had already resumed their watch and upstairs, he knew, Grantaire would have hidden himself away like he did when he drank now, tucked behind the bar with his whiskey and his doubt. 

\--------

When Paris was overrun in May of 2010, Enjolras had at first been too overwhelmed by the necessities of their new situation to think of much else beyond it.  In those early days it was all survival and control of panic, and he did the best he could to form the group around him into a little contingent of soldiers, brave and ready.  Out of all of them only Bahorel and Eponine had ever fired guns and even they hadn’t been prepared to do it so extensively, but they had learned, and not a one of them had shied away from the fight.  They stayed strong as the families on both sides of the Musain grew too terrified to stay, too lured by the promise of shelters set up across Paris, and they watched helpless as they ran to the presumed safety of the main streets, only to largely be torn apart.  Their screams echoed down the narrow corridors of Saint Michel, spurring nerves and heartbeats with the realization that if those herds turned, if they came to wander down the street where they had built their barricade, all would be lost. 

They dug in despite their fears and almost a year after the outbreak, eight of them remained.  (Nine, if Enjolras counted himself, but he never did.)  For Enjolras, the world had narrowed to them, their hopes, their fears, their blood, and he wondered sometimes how it had ever been any wider.  He had more to regret than he ever would have imagined, and he had not realized it until the dust settled from the outbreak, until Cosette was climbing the barricade and Marius was pulling her over the top and into his arms.

Ever since he’d been old enough to take his own stance in the world, Enjolras had focused on progress, on the cause, on pamphlets and letters and protests and the intricacies that came with fighting for true freedom for all in a land that already boasted of democracy.  It was never that his friends were unimportant; on the contrary, he loved them, but he asked much of them, and gave them little of his own time, preferring instead to simply watch them on occasion, to join them rarely, to make vague plans that _eventually_ , when he had achieved his goals…

For nearly six years, too much of his life had been postponed to be taken up, ‘eventually’.  So much of what he did had been an exercise in restraint, in what he could avoid for the sake of his work, what he could promise himself if he didn’t cave to temptation. 

The day Cosette returned had been for him the driving home of a point he had, without being fully aware of it, begun to see since the start of the outbreak- so much of what he had deemed temptation was in fact the substance of life, the concrete parts that mattered, that marked soul and skin and bone.  There, at the end of the world, laws meant nothing; people, relationships, those were everything.  The friends that had rallied around him for years in the upstairs room of the Musain, these people that had become his family, they had to be his world, his cause that came before any other.  When he’d first told them as much, around the light of a fire as they cooked the rats Eponine had caught them, Grantaire had laughed, smiled as he said that of course, of course it would take the collapse of civilization to bring Apollo down to earth.  In response, Enjolras had grabbed hold of the collar of his shirt and kissed him. 

Since they were boys, he had been Enjolras’ greatest temptation, wild and bright and dangerous.  He was no revolutionary, no lawyer, not even a believer, but he remained, it seemed, out of affection and amusement.  He came on time to every protest, only to prop his sign up with his backpack against a wall and play solitaire with a ragged deck of cards, chain smoking and tracing Enjolras with his eyes every time he rose up above the crowd to speak.  He was an often depressed alcoholic, a mocker, quick to land himself in jail with a punch thrown at the first officer to so much as vaguely threaten his friends(as such, despite his haphazard involvement, he’d been arrested more than any of them except, perhaps, Bahorel.  They debated that fact on more than one occasion.).  He was a painter, full of laughter, a loyal soul and a beautiful mess, and Enjolras had never wanted anything so selfishly in all his life. 

He wanted the way he’d forbidden himself to want, for the sake of desire, for the way his chest constricted as he held Grantaire up, leaning hard into Enjolras’ side as he walked him home.  He longed for more than the looks Grantaire cast his way that he couldn’t return, to instead be every time the man who took him home, to be the one who took him to bed and wrung such wild cries from his throat(living on the other side of a wall from him for three years, he had heard too much, his ears ringing with sound long after it was over, still filling him with jealousy and hurt and arousal.).  He would do more than lie with him, do more than love him; he would draw Grantaire to him until his belief bled into Grantaire’s skin, until he became a force too strong, too present in his blood to be denied, stronger than the darkness that so often tried to pull him away, stronger than the drink.  If he needed a hit, needed a rush, needed to _take_ from something to fill an unnamed void, Enjolras would offer himself for the taking, and in his dreams every time, it would become enough. 

All of that Enjolras had promised himself _eventually_ , had reminded himself of it on nights when he did go out with the others, when he watched as strangers danced with the man he loved, his head tipping back against their shoulders as their palms pressed hot against his skin.  He waited then, waited still even the night after a successful rally when he conceded to drink with the others, and his self-control slipped enough that before he knew it he was kissing Grantaire against the wall, whimpering as paint-flecked hands slipped just far enough beneath the hem of his shirt to fit against his skin.  He gasped, broke their string of kisses just long enough to breathe and remind himself that no, no he shouldn’t, but before he could say a word Grantaire had pulled out of reach, muttered apologies on his lips as he slunk back into the crowd and away.  Drunker that night than Grantaire had been, Enjolras hadn’t been able to follow, hadn’t even been able to decide if he wanted to. 

Until the night by the fire, that had been their only kiss, a drunken encounter he’d before admonished himself for as a lapse in judgment.  Now, looking back, he could only wish Grantaire hadn’t left, because if they’d gone farther then, Enjolras might have been presented with a chance to open his eyes, whole _years_ with Grantaire that weren’t spent living in a battered café under the ever present threat of violence and death. 

Still, as with so much else, Enjolras had resolved to be grateful for what he was given.  Whatever mistakes he had made in the past, whatever regrets he had, he had been given a chance to straighten out his priorities.  If they lived five more months or five more years, he had at least had the chance to look out for his friends, had at least had a window of time spent loving Grantaire the way he deserved. 

Sometimes, with Grantaire in his arms, the thought would cross his mind that _this_ , it was worth the end of the world.  Afterwards, no matter how much unease the thought carried with it, he was never quite able to deny that it was precisely how he felt. 

They’d set up a home from themselves in the familiar upstairs room of the Musain, had dragged a twin mattress they found in one of the apartments next door up the back stairs to slide it behind the bar.  It was always cramped, blazing hot in the summer but at least a little warmer in the winter, and it was perfect, absolutely perfect, better than any other bed he’d ever slept in.  They fell asleep tangled up in each other, his long legs wrapped around Grantaire and Grantaire’s face nuzzled against him like he couldn’t breathe him in deep enough to assure himself Enjolras hadn’t vanished in the night, and no matter how many times they woke up uncomfortable and had to readjust, neither of them had once complained.  

It was there he expected Grantaire to have gone to hide after the funeral, and he wasn’t wrong.  He sat at the top of the mattress, both pillows wedged back behind him against the wall as he sat with one knee cocked up, finishing off his flask. 

“ ‘s it over already?”

Enjolras shook his head, unfastened his homemade gun belt to lay his pistol down on the bar shelf closest to where he slept before easing down into the spot beside Grantaire against the wall.

“No, but I left them to it.  I had to see you.” 

“Don’t worry; I’ll be sober by the time they need me at the barricade.”

“That’s not what I meant.”  Enjolras shifted over, brought his arm up to rest across Grantaire’s shoulders and pull Grantaire against him.  He came willingly enough, though he tipped the flask back first to take the last swallow of whiskey.  “It’s going to be hard on all of us, without Gavroche.” 

“You knew this was coming.  You told me so, weeks ago.  Boy was reckless.” 

True, he’d said it, but he took no pleasure in being right; not on this. 

“Reminded me of you sometimes, Apollo.  He never knew when to quit.” 

Grantaire’s fingers tightened against his chest, clinging to his shirt, and Enjolras cupped Grantaire’s cheek in his hand, held him close as he kissed his hair. 

“Is that why you went back to the whiskey?”

“Yes and no.  It’s not all about you.”

“I never said it was; it’s _you_ that said-“

“Or it shouldn’t be, but somehow, with me, it always is, isn’t it?  We lost Jehan and I miss him like all hell but that night, seeing Courfeyrac lose it I realized I was thinking, even out of his mind as he was he kept it more together than I could have in his place, thinking that godawful as it was gonna be without Jehan at least it hadn’t been you out there being ripped apart.  D’you know how it feels to be relieved and fucking hate yourself for it?” 

Enjolras flashed back to a run in October, to Grantaire’s arm sliced open against a shattered windowpane, walkers drawn to the blood though he managed to bite his tongue on his grunt of pain.  He’d stumbled, almost been caught by a walker waiting below with clacking jaws and waiting hands, and one was hard enough to deal with, but there was a gathering at the end of the street, a shuffling mass that came first upon a woman who burst in terror from her base inside the weakly boarded up convenience store next door, gun already firing from the minute her feet hit the sidewalk.  From their distance at the window Enjolras could hear the wet ripping sound of her shoulders being torn from her body, and he scooped Grantaire up in his arms despite Grantaire’s protests that he could walk, and he didn’t look back. 

Eyes closed, he nuzzled into Grantaire’s hair, uncaring that all he mostly smelled like these days was sweat and blood and gasoline.  This time, the whiskey was there, old and full of nostalgia.  “Yes.  I know how it feels.”  Knew, and still couldn’t regret it.  If he’d had it all to do over, he’d have been just as grateful.  He had Grantaire still because of her, and he’d long ceased to be sure how many lives he’d be willing to pay to _keep_ having Grantaire.  Mostly, he tried not to bother to attempt a count. 

He slid his arm from Grantaire’s shoulders, hushed his soft sound of protest with a hand to Grantaire’s knee, tugging his leg out straight so Enjolras could move over to straddle his lap.  Like that it was easier to take Grantaire’s face in his hands, to tip his head back and take the kiss he’d wanted since he came upstairs.  The taste of whiskey on his tongue was a novelty, a rarity for so many months now that it seemed strange where it had once been ever present.  More noticeable, though, were the slow movements of his tongue, the way his hands came to rest obligingly at Enjolras’s hips though his grip remained loose, his thumbs still. 

Enjolras pulled back, lips still brushing softly as his hands slid down to smooth against his neck, his collar, his shoulders.  “If you don’t want-“

“The day I turn down the offer of your ass you know I’ve got the fever.  Y’can tell Joly to put me in quarantine for study.”  Enjolras could feel him smirk against his lips, a smile he returned and still, it didn’t feel right, his words too full of coarse disconnection.  Grantaire could be filthy, sometimes, but this between them, it had always been clear that it was never just about the sex, not once.  His grip on Enjolras’ hips still listless, he turned his head, taking his lips away from Enjolras’ with a last light kiss.  “‘M a selfish bastard, you know.  I really am.  Too selfish to ever tell you no.” 

“And how is that selfish, when I’ve never once wanted you to?”  Not a single time but particularly not then, not when he ached to let Grantaire’s hands rub away the smell of gasoline, to lose himself in the pleasure and burn that was the stretch of Grantaire inside him and forget that outside today, a little boy he loved had bled out terrified and in the hands of monsters.  For Enjolras, there was no shelter but this, no safety from the pressure that pounded in his head but that he could find in Grantaire’s arms.  “I’d go mad, without you.” 

“You’re used to me, now.  Attached.  God only knows how.  It’s alright, ‘s fantastic, actually, but before, before you were I should have…”  He swallowed, changed his grip to wrap his arm around Enjolras’ back so he could pull him closer, muffle his words against Enjolras’ shoulder.  “I should have stopped you.  After Cosette showed up with Valjean and Javert you knew Marius would go with them, knew he’d ask us to go and if I went Courfeyrac might follow and it’d split the group too far, too dangerous; I know how you think.  When you came to me I knew you were letting me fuck you so I wouldn’t go, and a better man would’ve…I’m sorry.  I should’ve told you.  I’d have stayed, for you.  I’d have always stayed with you.  You didn’t have to do this, but I let you.  I let you, I’d be willing to bet that’s the sort of the thing that damns a man, but at this point what’s done is done; doubt I’ve got it in me to change it even if I had the chance.” 

Grantaire leaned toward him as Enjolras pulled away, seeking a kiss that Enjolras dodged, his stomach so heavy and cold he’d have sworn he could feel lead all the way up to his throat.  All this time, all these months and all the words he’d murmured against Grantaire’s skin while they made love and _still_ he thought all that had transpired was nothing more than what, pity and proximity?  A calculated move that had only continued out of convenience? 

“I told myself I’d make it good for you, and then I thought hey, I must have done alright because you stayed, so I…I know, I should’ve told you I knew, I should have-“ 

Enjolras pulled out of his grip, rising up on his knees to give himself just a little more distance.  “You should’ve told me, but not for the reason you think.  Do you really think I’ve been lying to you all this time?” 

“Look, it doesn’t matter, I’ll take it; it’s enough, trust me.  You seem to enjoy it now and I never expected this much, so I’m not bothered, I’m not, I-“

“Well I am.  What you think this is, it damn well matters to me.”  It not only mattered, it _ached_ , knife sharp in his chest no matter how he tried to tell himself it was stupid, irrational for _him_ to feel hurt when it was Grantaire who though he was nothing more to Enjolras than occasionally useful.  Irrational or not, it was a wound, and he could not seal it, not on his own.  “I’ve never lied to you.” 

“I didn’t mean to…look, I know you’ve gotten used to having me here now, it’s alright, come here, will you?”  He tried, reached out to try and pull Enjolras’ lips back to his but he pulled further away, shaking his head. 

“No.  Not like this.”  Fear flashed in Grantaire’s eyes, an uncertainty that shone through the drink, and Enjolras caught his wrist, held on tight.  “That’s not a ‘no’ because I don’t want you, and it’s not a ‘no’ because I’m pissed that you were right about me; you weren’t.  There’s more to this for me than fucking you, enough that I can’t do this right now.  Not with you like this.”

“Enjolras, please, I-“

“ _Not like this_.”    Enjolras maneuvered off Grantaire and off the mattress, stood carefully in the narrow space next to the bar and steadied himself with one hand against it before reaching to pull on his gun belt.  “Sleep it off.  We can’t talk about this until you’re sober.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I-  _Enjolras_ ,”

Sharp as his own pain might have been, to hear Grantaire’s voice waver was enough to catch and hold him fast, bring him to crouch down next to the mattress with a sigh. 

“Do you even know what you’re apologizing for, or do you still think I’m angry at you because you’d have stayed even if we never slept together?”  His mouth opened on words he couldn’t yet say, silent too long for Enjolras’ comfort.  “That’s what I thought.”  He took Grantaire’s hand, batted his other away when he tried to use it to pull Enjolras in.  Enjolras kissed his knuckles, dirty and bruised and still, they always seemed to Enjolras to be cleaner hands than his own.  “I am still with you.  Whether you believe me at the moment or not, I will be with you until I have no choice in the matter, but there are things I need to know you understand.  Until you do, I can’t…I _can’t_.”  Letting go, Grantaire’s hand in his suddenly too scalding to bear, he stood, rubbed his fingers on his jeans.  “We’ll talk when you’re sober.  I have to go.” 

“Funny, you seemed to have time enough a minute ago.”  God, his voice was a fucking snare, weak and thin and utterly arresting.  Silent, Enjolras tapped his fingers on the bar, his back to Grantaire.  Maybe if he waited, maybe-

“Fuck, you don’t have to touch me if you don’t want but-“

_I want to, of course I fucking want to, that’s half the whole point, that’s-_

No, no he couldn’t say that. 

“It’s alright; I’ll stay.  I’ll stay.”  He unfastened his belt with practiced ease, slid it to the shelf without even a glance before taking his place on his sliver of the bed, ready for Grantaire to nestle against him.  He didn’t, slid down and curled up instead with his eyes on Enjolras like he was a mirage that might disappear and honestly, that felt worse.  Hesitant, he stroked his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, ruffling those untamable curls he so loved, even more now that they’d grown more into their full potential.  “Sleep, Grantaire.  I’ll be right here.” 

It took a quarter hour for his eyes to close, a half beyond that for his breathing to even into a pattern Enjolras recognized as sleep.  The minute he did he stood quietly, pulled on his gun and crept soft across the creaking boards for the back stairs. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read the first part of this very twisted idea...I love you and you are awesome and I'm really glad I can pull you into my dark crazy? hahaha

Enjolras rummaged around in their storage under the stairs, pulled out Grantaire’s old backpack.  He hefted it, flapped it open to look inside once more before deciding that yes, it had more than enough room for his purposes.  He slipped a hand to the gun on his belt, brushed comfortingly against the grip before sliding down to pat his pocket.  His knife was there, and he could feel the other in his boot, strapped to the inside like Grantaire had taught him.  He swiped an extra box of ammo into the front pouch of the bag just in case, zipped it tight and swung it up onto his back. 

He took the back door, came out next to the house just to the right of the Musain that they’d commandeered when it was abandoned, just as they had the rest of their little dead end street.  If they weren’t at the Barricade(and they shouldn’t be; not yet.  After Bahorel and Feuilly, Joly and Musichetta had the next watch.), they’d be here, in the their room.  After all she’d been through he didn’t want to wake Eponine but there was nothing for it; he had to tell Combeferre before he crossed the barricade, had to leave someone in control. 

Enjolras had no sooner slipped in the door than he heard Combeferre’s boots on the stairs, heard the click of his gun as he uncocked it. 

“Can’t be too careful.”

“No.  No you can’t.” 

Combeferre leaned against the wall halfway down the staircase.  Outside the late evening sun shone through the windows, casting just enough light for Enjolras to see the way he crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. 

“Going somewhere?”

“Yeah.   I’ve got a run to make.  Came to tell you; you’re in control while I’m gone, same as usual.  Should be quiet, but be careful.  If I don’t come back-“

“If you think I’m letting you go out there alone, you’re out of your mind.”  He hissed the words, furious but quiet enough to tell Enjolras he was right; upstairs, Eponine was sleeping.  “Whatever we need, it can wait for morning.  You can take Courfeyrac; it’d do him some good to take down a few walkers.  And Feuilly, I know he wants to scavenge for another bike if we get the chance, so-“

“I’m not going scavenging.  This is a targeted strike, in and out.  I know exactly what I’m after and besides, it’s personal.  I’m not risking any lives on it other than mine.”

“Like _hell_.”  Combeferre took the rest of the steps down quick, hands rough as he pushed Enjolras up against the wall beside the door.  “What are you after?” 

“Easy.”  Gently, he squeezed Combeferre’s wrist until he released his grip, let Enjolras guide his hand down to the gun that rested at his hip.  “If I was going out there to kill myself, you think I’d take this with me?”  Enjolras could feel him flinch, hear the catch in his breath as he tried to slow it, and Enjolras hated it, hated that he had to wonder.  Combeferre was ever his protector, had been since they were small and he was skinny kid on the playground having his book kicked out of his hands by the others until Combeferre had transferred schools.  Two years older, and still he’d been unafraid to be seen protecting such an ostracized little boy, unafraid to be his friend.  Throat tight, Enjolras took Combeferre’s face in his hands, his touch light and careful.  “I won’t leave you like that, Combeferre.  Not ever.  No matter how bad it gets; my place is here, with all of you.  Whoever we have left.” 

He studied Enjolras’ face, nodded finally as if he was mollified by what he saw.  He backed off, rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his cheeks as his other hand gestured at the door.  “Then why now?  What’s so damn important that to get it you’re sneaking out right before dark?” 

Enjolras fidgeted, shifted the backpack on his shoulders and shoved his hands in his pockets.  “Look, it doesn’t matter.  Just watch out for everyone while I’m gone, alright?” 

“It matters because when I go out, I need to know where I’m going first, and if I don’t go with you-“ His voice rose, talking over the protests Enjolras tried to make. “-then you aren’t going either because I will chain you to this railing and post a guard until you change your mind before I will let you walk out of here on your own.”  The rest was underneath, unspoken but present all the same in the vague tremor that shook his words off balance.  Jehan, he had been the last of them to go out alone.  After that, they’d all agreed.  No more solo missions, not even around the corner. 

“This is different.”

“With you, it always is.” 

Frustrated, Enjolras only barely resisted the instinctive urge to glance futility over his shoulder.  Sunset was coming on fast; he needed to go if he was going to be there and back before Grantaire woke up.  If he did this right, Grantaire would never have to know he was missing until it was over, never have a chance to worry.  He knew Combeferre too well; he should’ve planned for this.  Resolved to action, there would be no changing his mind.  _Fuck_. 

Enjolras let out a frustrated huff of breath, glared across at him as he spit out the answer.  “I’m going back to the apartment.  It’s got to be done.  If you’re coming with me, bring a bag.  It’d be stupid for both of us to go all that way and not carry back what supplies we can.” 

“It’s stupid to go at all; are you _insane_?”  He threw his arms wide, voice rising back again out of his controlled whisper in his intensity.  “Last time we tried to go by it was plain the place was crawling with walkers; whatever you’ve got in there, it’s not worth-“

“He thinks I fucked him to make him stay.”  Something about it shut Combeferre up, either the words themselves or their sharp tipped sound, dripping with distaste.  “Grantaire, he honestly thinks he’s nothing more to me than a body capable of wielding a gun, that I keep him in my bed as some sort of goddamn perk of my position.”

“Enjolras, he’s drunk, I’m sure once you-“

“I know him, Combeferre.  I could see it in him; he believes it.  Oh he believes I care about him now, but he thinks it’s the effect rather than the cause.”

“Then prove it _is_ the cause.”

“Precisely.” 

Exasperated, Combeferre pointed sharply at him.  “On your _own_ , Enjolras, prove it on your own!  If you can convince a crowd of people to-“

“Tell me, when have I ever been able to verbally convince Grantaire of a damn thing?”  With Grantaire there was always a comeback, always another theory, always a fallacy in Enjolras’ logic he seemed certain he’d found or a point he just couldn’t bring himself to believe. 

“Say you’re right, is it worth-“

“My life?”  His voice rose to match Combeferre’s, ringing with conviction.  “It could be him we’re burning next for all I know.  He could be next, same as any of us, so yes, over my dead _body_ will he die believing he was never more to me than an obligation or convenience.  Maybe this is how we go down, one by one, and if it is, if I can’t be with him, then he needs to understand.  _I_ need him to understand.” 

Seconds ticked by, ten at least before Combeferre seemed to deflate, air rushing out of his lungs.  “ _Damn_.” 

“You don’t have to-“

“Don’t start.”  He pinned Enjolras to the wall with his eyes, narrowed, and sharp even in the half light.  “You stay right there.  I have to get my things.  Say goodbye to Eponine.” 

Enjolras nodded, looked down as his heart jolted.  Maybe, maybe he should’ve said goodbye to Grantaire, just in case, maybe…

If he had, even drunk, Grantaire never would’ve let him go.  Besides, what was that old line, about it being easier to ask for forgiveness than permission?  Cosette had used it so many times, laughing eyes bright and wild as she slipped out her window to meet them on the street.  His throat burned and he cleared it, shoved his hand into his pocket to flex around his knife.  These days, he did his best not to think of Cosette.  Marius.  Bossuet.  Jehan…

Combeferre clapped a hand on his shoulder, heavy and strong.  “Come on.  Let’s go.”

“That was fast.” 

Combeferre jerked the door open, eyes grim in the sliver of setting sun that made him squint.  “I lied to her.  Let’s go.” 

\--------

“So…”  Combeferre picked his way through a mess of broken glass, eyes constantly scanning ahead.  So far, they’d only had to take down five, had mostly been able to avoid walkers rather than confront them.  There were advantages, sometimes, to going on foot in small numbers like this.  “Now that I’m out here and we’re nearly there, do I get to hear what exactly I’m risking my neck for?” 

There was no real malice in him, nothing but a trace of dry amusement, and Enjolras tried to match him, forced his lips to curve.  “I think if I did, you might club me over the head and drag me back.” 

“Possibly.”  He paused, knelt down to pocket the taser on a long since incapacitated walker who’d once been crowd control.  “I get it, you know.  Intent matters.”  He hung back a bit, waited for Enjolras to fall even with his step before he continued.  “I’m going to ask Eponine to marry me.  I would have, before, but…”

“Law school.  You wanted to finish; I know.”   Enjolras leaned in, knocked his shoulder lightly against Combeferre’s.  “It’s a good idea.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I’m happy for you.”  And he was, really, even if in the back of his mind he had to first flash through images of churches and gowns and the party Courfeyrac and Grantaire would have thrown him.  His mind had become a mess of contradictions.  Times like this, he realized with a bitter taste that he fucking hated this world, fucking hated it even though he knew he’d be grateful for it all over again when he got home, when he could feel again the press and pull of Grantaire’s hands at his clothes, his wrists. 

Deep down there was the nagging itch that really, it wasn’t this world he should half love, but himself he should hate.  If he’d been less reluctant before, he could have had those hands.  It wasn’t the walkers, after all, that had brought Grantaire to his bed; that was his own doing. 

“You shouldn’t have come, Combeferre.”  He should’ve stayed, should’ve been there to hold Eponine, to make love to her when she woke and realized fresh with her first breath that her little brother was gone. 

“I’m not having this conversation.”  To Combeferre’s left a walker beat against the windows of an abandoned car, her legs trapped at an impossible angle by the luggage that rested on top of them on the floorboards.  She was pinned, harmless, and they ignored the click of her teeth against the glass.  “I’m happy for you too, you know.  Grantaire, he’s good for you.  I always knew he would be.” 

“I know.  Told me a hundred times.”

Combeferre’s hand at his wrist stopped him, pulling him still.  “Enjolras, you can’t-“

“What, blame myself?  I can, actually.”  He jerked his chin down the street, pointing to the last corner they’d need to round.  “Come on.  Almost home.”  _Home_.  It didn’t sound right anymore, couldn’t even sound like the joke he’d meant it to be.  Home was the Musain, battered and filthy with cracked glass, devoid of rats since they’d learned how to cook them.  This place they were going, it seemed a relic from a lifetime ago, little better than a museum.  Just then, still in the midst of a street full of the detritus of cataclysm, he was hardly sure he’d recognize the place at all. 

\--------

From the street, Enjolras could see that the lobby was almost as full of walkers as they remembered from the last time they’d come this far.  The windows were busted out, the glass bloodied, and he could glimpse what looked like a spine draped over the front desk.  Still, it could have been worse.  Last time, they’d seemed more active, more restless.  Whether they’d recently fed or it was simply due to the relative quiet of the streets and the thinning of their numbers as they spread out in search of new prey, they seemed to mill quietly, some resting against the walls, leaning crooked against the desk. 

Gritting his teeth, Enjolras ducked back around the corner to talk to Combeferre.  “Right, so the lobby’s a total loss; we expected that much.  They’re quiet though, so long as we keep a bit of distance between us, if nothing else we’ll have space to maneuver when they scent us.”  He gestured at the window closest to the back of the building, whispering.  “Often as he had it open, what do you think the odds are Bahorel ever locked his window?”

“Slim, but once we get inside-“

“Once _I_ get inside.  _You_ are going to stay here and stand guard, because if I get overpowered in there, you need to be able to get the hell out.  We both start firing, odds are no one makes it out of here.”

“Thought you said if we were coming this far we might as well stock up.”

“Looking at that mess out front, I changed my mind.  It’s too dangerous.  You need a clear escape.” 

“Enjolras,-“

“No time to argue; you want to help me, you’ll give me a boost in that window.”  For a moment, Enjolras was unsure of his odds.  Combeferre was stubborn, but not in the way Grantaire was stubborn, not even in the way Enjolras himself could be at times.  His determination was fierce to be sure, but he had enough logic to rein it in, when he needed, when it helped.  He could see the minute Combeferre conceded, the irritated twitch of muscle in his jaw that went with it.  He gripped Enjolras’ shoulders, dipped his head to catch Enjolras’ eyes with his own. 

“You run into more than you can handle, you forget what you came for and get your ass back out here to me.  Promise me.  Nothing stupid, Enjolras.” 

“You have my word.  Nothing stupid.”  Except coming was stupid, he knew it, knew it and hadn’t been able to stop himself.  The pain was just too real, guilt and grief and the need to _act_ , the insatiable urge to prove once and for all he hadn’t been blind, he’d just been an idiot.  “Come on.  I need a hand.” 

The windows were old, paint thick around the sills, and though it had been opened more times than they could count all of that had been around a year ago, now.  It stuck at first, took both of them to push it up with a scrape that made them wince and freeze.  From inside the room, Enjolras could hear a walker lurch to life in the shadows, and he vaulted himself onto the sill before he could think, relieved when Combeferre’s hands came up to boost him quick under his boots though he cursed Enjolras under his breath.  He fell to the bed in an ungraceful tumble, scrambled up from his side and yanked his knife from his boot in the same struggling movements, head cocked toward the sound. 

The walker stumbled, feet caught in piles of clothes as it clawed the air, and Enjolras slid from the bed and into a crouch, driving the knife through its brain while it flailed on the floor.  He held his breath, listened to the drip of black blood and the quiet shuffle he could hear creep down the carpeted hall.  One, maybe two, but here, he had the homefield advantage.  He knew these rooms; he’d been in an out of them for years, had sprawled out with his books and papers to study on this very floor.  Here, so long as he kept his wits about him, he could not be taken by surprise. 

“Enjolras.” 

He waved Combeferre off without looking up, finger to his lips as he watched the closed door.  He wanted to time it right, open the door just before they hit to save himself from the echoing sound of their deadened limbs beating harsh against the wood.  Closer…closer…

He unfolded from his crouch, hopped across the mess of shirts and jeans left waiting to be washed and jerked open the door.  The walker’s head hung crooked, neck broken, though his jaws chattered as fiercely as ever.  There was blood caught in his beard, blood and strands of far longer hair, and Enjolras grimaced as he reached for the walker’s shirt to jerk him further off balance, knife plunging with sickening ease through his eye socket.  The twitching stilled, and Enjolras kept his grip on the shirt, eased the body slowly to the ground.  Behind that walker, there was nothing.  Yet. 

He turned back for a last glance at Combeferre framed in the window, fingers wrapped over the sill like he was caught in indecision about pulling himself in.  Enjolras pointed back at him with the bloody knife, stern. 

“Keep watch for me.  Ten minutes.  I just have to make it upstairs.” 

Sort of.  First, he had to make it out of Bahorel and Feuilly’s apartment to even _get_ to the hall and the side stairwell that would lead him up to their old apartment on the third floor.  Crouched on the floor of Bahorel’s room he’d thought for a moment that maybe, coming hadn’t been so stupid after all, might instead be a run they needed to repeat in the light of day.  With a thinner herd of walkers, they _did_ hold an advantage here, if they left the bike and the car at home and came in small numbers and on foot. 

Coming out of the hall and into the living room, though, he was confronted with a whole host of reasons to stay the hell away that he’d never even considered.  There was the loveseat they’d picked up for free after Bossuet had seen it in a Craigslist ad.  It was old, green with enormous faded pink flowers, and Courfeyrac had laughed his ass off at the look on Bahorel’s face when they’d first slid it into the room.  They’d sat discussing their first law school classes here, reading briefs and planning weekend protests in between.  During the push to finals that first December Musichetta had left Joly with a pot of tea and a kiss and his medical journals, had come to Bossuet because he was less neurotic about these sorts of things.  There on that loveseat, she’d scrunched up to fall asleep with her head in Bossuet’s lap and his fingers in her hair, stroking absently while he read. 

Now, the fabric was coated in blood, free of a body to accompany the liters that had clearly soaked through to weigh the already weak and sagging cushions.  Sick, Enjolras clenched his fingers on his knife so tight his knuckles hurt.  Whatever tidbits they could scavenge, he wasn’t so sure it’d be worth bringing anyone back to subject them to this. 

It was clear there’d been a struggle here at some point, long ago.  In the early days of the outbreak it seemed the place had been occupied by group small enough to fit, large enough to think they could hold it.  Once he reached the front door, the hole gnawed in the lower half of the cheap wood told him how it had ended.  Goddamn people, trusting thin walls and doors with locks because it had always been so, because it had been too long since mankind faced a true wolf at the door.  They had, to their detriment, forgotten how to be prey. 

Enjolras took a deep breath, weighed his options before dropping to one knee to peer out the jagged bloody hole.  There were walkers there, two at the end of the hall.  Crawling would make him vulnerable for a moment, but with the creak and cracking sounds it was sure to bring, opening the damaged door wasn’t really an option.  He’d have to make it quick, dart to the stairs and-

And the clang of that heavy door would be guaranteed to draw them, if his scent hadn’t already.  Still, going after them outright wasn’t the best idea, either.  He couldn’t take them both down with a minimum of sound, not when he’d first have to charge them, knowing they’d smell him coming.  There’d be noise, the walkers eager moans at _least_ , and it’d draw the attention of every walker lurking in the apartments on either side of him.  They’d bring with them the attention of the gang in the lobby and then…checkmate. 

A creeping move to the stairs was all he’d have.  He retreated back into the living room, closed and pocketed his knife in favor of taking down the two foo dog bookends Feuilly’s mom had picked up for them in a secondhand shop.  They were sturdy things, brass, strong enough to function as a doorstop, and strong enough to bash a walker’s head in if he encountered one in the darkness of the staircase. 

Armed and ready, he ducked that time without hesitation out into the hall, kept close the wall and prayed he was quick enough, that his palms wouldn’t turn slick enough to lose their grip.  Easing open the stairwell door, they were still dry.  He’d had a hell of a lot more experience with fear, now, than he’d ever expected.  Just inside he paused, pulled a fresh book of matches from his pocket to strike one and demystify the darkness a bit.  There was nothing he could see.  All around him, the air felt stale and quiet, undisturbed.  So much the better.  He slipped the bookend into place, supported the weight of the door inch by inch until it rested smoothly against strong brass. 

The walkers hadn’t moved, but he tried not to sigh.  Getting upstairs, that’d be only half the feat.  Until he’d made it to his room and made it back out, he didn’t have time for the distraction of relief. 

\--------

The French flag hung still from Enjolras’ ceiling, pinned there by more than a dozen tacks.  Grantaire had rolled his eyes when he hung it, made a crack about sleeping beneath his beloved lady _patria_ and Joly, he had complained about the dangers if those tacks fell into bed with him at night, if the flag itself slipped from its heights to tangle his limbs and smother his breath.  He’d pinned it there the best he could, half to pacify Joly’s anxieties and half his own pride in those colors.  So long as it was up to him, this little scrap of the country he so loved that had been entrusted to his care would never touch the ground. 

In place though it was, his room was not untouched.  The drawers seemed to have been ransacked, and there was blood on the corner of his bed, what looked to be nail marks slashed into the side of his sheets.  At the head of his bed, the wood burning Gavroche had made for him in art class hung crooked, the letters still dark and strong- _the land that fought for liberty._   The day he handed it over to Enjolras, he’d promised it wasn’t finished, that when he got better at it, he’d take it back to add a little more, a French flag, maybe, or the outline of the country herself. 

Enjolras swung the backpack off his shoulders, made his way to the right side of the bed to reach up and snag it down.  Things like this were half of why he’d wanted to bring the bag.  Even if it wasn’t what he’d come for, he’d known that once he was there there’d be other things he couldn’t resist.  There _were_ others, possessions he hadn’t quite thought of that all of a sudden drew his eye like flame.  His grandfather’s tie, hanging from his mirror.  The picture of him and Cosette at 7 years old, little hands shoved deep into white beach sand.  They’d grown up in the same wealthy neighborhood, attended the same schools Combeferre’s parents instead struggled to afford.  God, Cosette…

He stroked the glass over her sunburnt cheek, wiping dust away from her smile.  “You’re a brave one, you know.  I don’t believe…”  _I don’t believe you’d go down without a fight, but then, which of us do?  Am I a fool, to think you made it for no other reason than because I never saw you lose?_   Eyes burning, he shoved the frame roughly into the bag, blinking hard.  Crying was a luxury, and this certainly wasn’t one of the rare occasions where he could afford it. 

He had to hurry; he couldn’t linger here.  If he let himself, he could probably search the damn room for days.  Fingers closer to shaking than they had been in weeks, Enjolras seized the handle to his nightstand and yanked the drawer open, half ready for it not to be there after all, half sure it would be because who the fuck would take-

No one.  No one but him. 

A half smile tugging at his lips, Enjolras wrapped his fingers around the chain, bringing it to his lips for a kiss before sliding it down deep as he could into the safety of his pocket. 

There was room still, in the bag, room enough to shove in whatever he could afford before he hightailed it the hell out of there.  He moved quick, following instinct rather than a pattern of any kind.  He took photo albums, a ticket stub, a watch, the box of condoms Cosette had insisted he keep in his nightstand, _just in case_. (Those, at least, were practical.  He and Grantaire might not need them, but Combeferre and Joly did.) 

From his bookshelf familiar titles called to him, begging his fingers to smooth away the dust and blood and gather them up in his arms.  His index finger traced the spines, came to rest on _The Rights of Man_.  He was, after all, still a believer at heart.  Maybe…

But there, there on the desk next to where he’d kept his laptop(gone, likely looted early on when there was still a hope of making it work) was a notebook he recognized, corners folded down here and there and hints of ripped white sheets tucked in and visible at its edges. 

He left _The Rights of Man_ behind. 

\--------

Beyond the moment he could have killed Combeferre(almost literally) for running into him in the kitchen of their old apartment, the escape from the complex passed without severe incident.  Even their sudden argument had hardly last a moment, his own furious hiss that he’d meant for Combeferre to _stay outside_ cut off almost immediately by a rather more reasonable _you expect me to believe you’d have let me come in here alone?_   The point was absolutely sound, and he’d quieted after that.  They searched the kitchen together, found little but a few stales boxes of crackers and cereal that would at least be edible if not palatable. 

Enjolras entertained the thought of trying Grantaire and Jehan’s apartment for only as long as it took him to open the door.  The kitchen table still stood, the floor beneath it stained a deep redbrown all around a set of dismembered tiny bones, scraps of dirtied orange and white fluff.  Enjolras shut the door, leaned heavy against the jamb. 

“You want to try theirs too, since we’re here?”

Enjolras shook his head, realized Combeferre probably couldn’t see in the dark, there in a hallway with only two dingy windows at either end.

“No.  Let’s go home.” 

Halfway back, Enjolras walked with his thumb rubbing at the shape in his pocket from the outside of his jeans, reassuring himself of its presence.  He chanced a glance up, a little overwhelmed all over again at how as a city boy born and raised, it had been hard for him to remember, once, that there were so very many stars. 

“I saw Muriel, Combeferre.”  No, no that wasn’t right.  “What was left of her.”  It wasn’t _Muriel_ he’d seen, not the bright little scrap of a kitten Jehan had brought home one day wrapped in a dish towel.  Jehan had pulled her from garbage can, took her in and weaved chains of clover for her to bat all across the slick linoleum of the kitchen floor.  He’d pampered her, and still she’d grown into _Grantaire’s_ cat, all lean lines and mischief, draping over his shoulders to bat at his hands and brushes while he worked. 

Enjolras laughed, bitter and sharp.  “I don’t know why, with all I’ve seen-“

“Because she was an innocent, and because she was ours.”  Combeferre flipped his open knife to his other hand, smiling down at the street in the moonlight as he continued.  “You know what Jehan always said.  Animals and children; the purest souls.” 

Pure souls indeed. 

Enjolras tugged at the straps on his backpack, suddenly mindful of the weight.  Behind his eyes, for a moment it wasn’t Muriel or Gavroche or even Jehan he saw but Cosette, 7 years old and smiling at him from behind dingy glass. 

“Grantaire can never know.”  Of that, he was certain.  God knows the man had never had belief in much, but he’d loved that little thing.  Let him think she was running free, chasing down rats in the catacombs. 

Combeferre ruffled his hair, gentle, and for a moment they were boys again, Enjolras forever younger and trying, always trying to act the elder. 

“Don’t worry.  He won’t.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm not to be trusted. I apparently judge fic length the way people sometimes give distance in the country mile, lmao Really, though, there is just his reunion with Grantaire left, here. Reallyreally. (which, ok, that will be involved, but it will all come at once. promise.)
> 
> (can I just add, too, that I found out AFTER I picked the name Muriel that Muriel is apparently the angel of June? I can't. I have no ability to can.)


	3. Chapter 3

Still feet away from the barricade, Enjolras blinked against the flashlight that had clicked on to blaze suddenly bright against his eyes.  They saved the batteries for night watch, for spotting walkers in the streets.  It was strange, that particular sensation of bright burning.  He’d grown unaccustomed to electricity. 

“It’s alright, Joly.  It’s us.”  He couldn’t see a damn thing but he was sure it was him, positive because Musichetta was the better shot and she always wedged herself against the cabinet near the top of the barricade to the right, rifle propped against her knee as she hummed quietly songs she’d have played if they could find her a guitar. 

The quick and low ‘ _fuck_ ’ that came as the flashlight switched off was carried instead by a voice far more familiar.  He could hear the sound of Grantaire scrabbling down the back of the barricade, still not so coordinated, and though Enjolras had drawn a sharp breath at the first sound he spurred himself to move, to ignore Combeferre’s beginning question of “Enjolras, did you-“. 

Whatever the rest of his question was the answer was probably yes, he did.  With Grantaire pushing the gate open and going to be bursting around that side any minute, he didn’t have the time either to answer or elaborate.  (Or maybe it was the look on Combeferre’s face he didn’t want to see, the way disappointment always seemed to _burn_ in those soft blue eyes in a way it did in no one else’s.  If he’d looked, he’d have been half tempted to snap back that who was he to judge, when he’d lied so easily to Eponine?  No, it was best he didn’t look at all.) 

Enjolras had almost made it to the gate by the time Grantaire had forced the heavy thing open enough to slip through, was close enough that he covered the distance in no more than a few steps, practically crashing into Enjolras with hands that seemed set to push him back right up to the moment they fisted in his shirt instead.

“Grantaire, I-“

“You son of a _bitch_ , do you-“

“If you’ll let me-“

“You have any idea what the hell that was like?  I wake up and you’re not there, come down here and they tell me you’re gone, not a fucking word about where you went, not a goddamn thing, and you said-“  Grantaire took a harsh breath, a sound split on the knife edge between rage and hurt.  His grip tightened, muscles clenching as he forced himself to speak with just a little more force.  “You know, it doesn’t even fucking matter what you said.  You say what you want to me; God knows you always have, but is it so much to ask that you at least put a token effort into not getting yourself killed?”  Grantaire shook him, the force of his desperation too great for stillness.  He was breathing heavy, so full of adrenaline Enjolras could feel him start to tremble. 

“I meant to be back before you-“

“Stop, will you just-“  Enjolras reached for him, fingers barely brushing his wrist before Grantaire reacted violently, so rough in the act of letting go that he pushed Enjolras back, tilting him off balance for a moment before he could grab hold of Grantaire, anchoring them together again. 

His voice dropped, his hold tightening as Grantaire’s hand pushed against his shoulder.  “You want to keep screaming at me, I won’t deny that I’ve earned it.  Just come upstairs with me to do it.  We can talk about this.” 

Grantaire shook his head, reached up absently to brush the hair away from his eyes.  “You know what, Enjolras?  Don’t bother.  You made it back; that’s all I needed to know.” 

He turned to walk away and Enjolras let him go, let Grantaire slip through his fingers and back through the gate, around Musichetta and Joly who’d come to hover at the edges.  Enjolras started after him without a second’s hesitation, a retort already forming on his lips, but Combeferre jerked his wrist and tugged him back too strongly to ignore. 

“Let him go.”

“I have to-“

“He’s still not entirely sober, and I’m still not convinced you even know what it is you need to say.  Let him go, Enjolras.  Let him breathe a little.  He’s been through a hell of a lot today.”  The rest was in his grip, too tight with an extra squeeze of warning.  _You’re not helping; you’ve done enough._  

Enjolras jerked his hand free and hefted the backpack higher on his shoulders, attention pointedly on Musichetta as he pushed through the gate. 

“Keep a sharp eye.  If any of them heard that, we may have visitors.” 

\--------

Enjolras wasn’t very good at patience.  Denial, that he’d been able to do because he _wanted_ it badly enough, had enough drive and focus for his cause that he’d been able to forcibly tune everything else out.  Patience, waiting for the sake of waiting…that, he’d never been able to manage.  Besides, much as he respected Combeferre’s opinion and had often depended on him for his advice, with Grantaire he was no longer sure he needed it.  Combeferre knew relationships in general better than Enjolras, undoubtedly, but Enjolras had come to know Grantaire more intimately than any of them.  Impatience aside, he could see nothing wise about letting him sit up there alone, give him time to withdraw  further.  (And yes, maybe Enjolras found himself climbing that back staircase not five minutes later because he _was_ a creature of action not stillness, but could he blame himself, really?  Their lives were too short now for extended arguments and distance; more than ever, resolution mattered.) 

When he made it to the top of the stairs Grantaire wasn’t hard to find.  He leaned against the windowsill, looking down on the barricade and the street, though at the sound of Enjolras’ boots on the floorboards he turned away. 

“You must be exhausted.  Go on then.  I can-“

“No, don’t go; I didn’t come up here to kick you out.” 

“Enjolras,-“

He dropped the backpack and closed the distance, tugged Grantaire’s unresisting hand away out so he could whip the chain out of his pocket and press it hard against his palm.  “We need to talk.  To be fair, I don’t think you’re as angry as you should be.” 

Grantaire’s forehead furrowed, fingers first flexing around what he’d been given before he opened his hand, uncovering the chain and the pendant it carried.  The edges of the bottlecap were sharp, a familiar slice to them that Enjolras had gotten used to occasionally feeling in his sleep if he rolled over on it wrong.  He could see, now, where they’d pressed into Grantaire’s palm, sharp little red pinpricks against pale skin.  Grantaire, his eyes were only on the center, on paint unfaded and unchipped, always protected by the way Enjolras had worn it under his shirt, against his skin. 

They were 18 the year Grantaire made it for him, a detour from the final art project that he hoped would help secure him a place at university.  He’d waited to the last minute of course, collected bottle caps and mulled over a dozen ideas in his head for weeks before finally beginning frantic work on an enormous collage.  Each cap had to be painted individually, work full of tiny brushes and primers and baking to set the color, and in the end he’d enlisted Jehan to help him piece the whole damn thing together.  Still he hadn’t missed a meeting, had instead brought a sack full of caps with him and took his customary spot at the back, calling out retorts with his eyes still on the careful work of his fingers. 

He remained long after the others had left, still painting by the time Enjolras was packing up his things, and Grantaire had called out to him as he went to lift his satchel over his shoulder. 

 _Here.  For you._   He’d flipped a cap pulled from his pocket into the air, half smiling as Enjolras caught it.  _Render to Cesar that which is Cesar’s._

_I’m not-_

_Yeah, yeah, I know, no dictator references.  Sorry, Apollo, sometimes it’s hard to resist.  Anyway, I was bored, last night.  It can get monotonous, always painting on pattern._

The minute he’d turned it over in his hand, Enjolras knew it was far more than simple boredom.  This design, it was far more intricate than the others, a soft green background with a delicate red lyre, the word _Apollo_ traced in flowing black script across the center.  It was beautiful, a work of art in miniature, and it had to have taken him time he didn’t have.  Startled, Enjolras had looked up, too lost for words to do more than question Grantaire with his eyes. 

_Look, it’s nothing; it’s scrap.  I told you; I was bored.  Stuff it in a drawer, throw it away, it doesn’t matter.  Just thought I’d show you._

Enjolras hadn’t been able to voice any of the dozen thoughts that swam in his throat.  He’d stayed a moment frozen in place, had finally closed his hand around those sharp points and muttered a thank you on his way out the door.  At home, he’d turned it over and over between his fingers, slipped it between his knuckles like a coin as he read over his notes, and for a month it had lived in his pockets.  It was only at Combeferre’s suggestion that he finally text Feuilly and asked him if he had a reliable way of carefully punching a tiny hole in a bottlecap without ruining it.  Once he had it on a chain, it had been a constant around his neck so long as he could hide it, the familiar slight weight comforting against his chest. 

That last night at the apartment, he’d taken it off when Grantaire knocked on his door after midnight so he could stumble to the door without having to find a shirt, but he had brought news of the spread of the outbreak, and there had only been time to grab clothes and shoes and a little food and dash out the door.  In the rush of leaving, the necklace he’d worn near constantly for the past few years was left forgotten in his drawer.  He’d missed it by that afternoon but by then, it was too late to go back. 

Grantaire shifted his hand farther into the moonlight drifting through the window, smoothed his thumb over the paint and up to the connection to the chain, made the circuit around the sharp edges.   “You kept…”  As a start it was hoarse and thick, unreadable, but he tried again.  “You went back for _this_?”  His anger won out over the confusion and wonder, consolidating into an incredulous rage that burned out at Enjolras from eyes as dark blue as he’d ever seen them.  “You went back _to the apartment_ , you nearly got yourself killed for-“

“No, not just for this.”  He caught Grantaire’s hand, closed his fingers over fist and chain both to hold him still.  “If it was just for that, I’d have left it.  I _have_ left it, though I wanted it back from the minute I realized I’d left without it.  It took a while before I even noticed I didn’t have it, honestly, because if it hadn’t been you that knocked on my door that night, I’d have never taken it off.  I never did.  It hadn’t left my possession for a moment beyond the hole Feuilly punched in it since you gave it to me.  But this is a _thing_ , Grantaire.  It’s a symbol, and I don’t need it anymore, but I think you do.  How else could I prove to you that I meant every word?  That I’m not putting up with you because the group needs you or because you’re a good fuck?  You’re not wrong about the group; we do need you, and if you’d wanted to leave I’d have told you all the reasons why that’s true, but none of that has anything to do with what’s happened between us.” 

He was listening, actually listening, and Enjolras pressed his advantage, pulled the hand he held up between them and stepped just a little closer.  “I had to prove to you that I kept it, that I treasured it not just because it was yours, but because you chose to give it to me.  I didn’t need it to remind me of you, Grantaire.  Whether you choose to believe me or not, I’ve never been able to keep you out of my thoughts.  This?  This reminded me of everything I owed you, everything I’d pay back when my work was finished.  You were so ready to give to me, of yourself and of whatever you could, and I rarely thanked you for it.  Always the others, but almost never you, because you drove me crazy; you still drive me crazy, but my feelings for you have _never_ changed.  I only thought I had time to get around to them, and I never doubted that when I did, you’d be willing.”  _Christ_ , out loud it somehow sounded even worse than it did in his head, more full of arrogance and absurdity.  He’d been so sure Grantaire would wait, so sure it was worth it to make him, to put everything he saw could be between them on hold. 

However guilty Grantaire might have felt for feeling he should’ve told Enjolras he’d never leave, Enjolras was sure _he_ felt worse for this, for knowing he’d let Grantaire carry on being convinced that his feelings could never be returned, that Enjolras was forever an annoyance or two away from casting him out.  There was part of him, the old part, that still pleaded, _he has to understand, I couldn’t keep him any closer, I couldn’t, if I had…I didn’t have time for a relationship._

He’d gotten practiced at silencing that voice.  In these last days, he had nothing but time. 

Enjolras let go slowly, savored the feel of Grantaire’s knuckles brushing against his palm.

“I brought it back to prove to you this was real, with us, but looking at it all now, I can see there’s more to it than that.  You were wrong, before.  You have a right to be angry I lied to you, a right to be angry I left, and you certainly have a right to be angry about my actions before.  I’ve always loved you, and I kept it from you; I had my reasons, but they don’t matter now.  For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.  I am.  You have me now.  I wish I had more to offer you, but it’s the best I can do.” 

Enjolras swallowed against a flash of fear, shoved his hand in his pocket to quell the urge to stroke the back of Grantaire’s hand once more and make sure he’d memorized the feel of his skin, but beneath those his old certainties remained, shameful enough that he’d never speak them.  Just as Grantaire had said he’d have stayed for Enjolras no matter what, Enjolras knew there was next to nothing he could do to push Grantaire away, now.  His anger might flare and he might withdraw, might go so far as to force a little space between them for a day or two, but it would never be over between them unless Enjolras ended it, of that he was sure.  Grantaire was drawn to him too fiercely, too irrevocably.  He’d trailed in Enjolras’ orbit for years, weaving in and out of sight but always present, caught in a harried back and forth between dissent and offering his services.  Grantaire would forgive him anything, he knew it, was ashamed to know it even as he sought that forgiveness out. 

At this point in his life he aspired only to be the best leader to his friends he could be, and to never again abuse Grantaire’s devotion.  He could never hope to be worthy of it; no matter what Grantaire thought, he was no Apollo.  Still, he could, perhaps, be good enough not to hurt him like he had in the past.  Perhaps. 

Grantaire was quiet, the tip of his thumb having returned to tracing the bottle cap’s points, and Enjolras swallowed hard, shoulders hunching as his fingers curled in his pockets.  “I’ll leave you then.  Just, please-“

“I don’t need to think about it.”  Grantaire murmured without looking, without so much as glancing, and still Enjolras felt warmed all the way from his chest to his throat.  Grantaire had always been so good at predicting him, first in debates then everywhere else.  “Waiting for you to get back, all I could think was how I couldn’t handle it if you didn’t.  I couldn’t, you know.  I meant what I said before.  Courfeyrac, Joly, Musichetta, I know they’ve been through hell and I’m not discounting it, but I _couldn’t_ -“  He choked, wrapped the chain around his hand so tight it had to hurt, digging into his skin and pressing it taut and white. 

“I know, Grantaire, I-“

“Do you?  Do you really?  Because whatever right you think I have to be mad at you now, the only way I will _never_ forgive you is if you leave me here. “  His voice shook and Enjolras couldn’t take it, couldn’t fight the pull under his skin that drew his hand to curve against Grantaire’s neck, has other arm wrapping around his waist.  The hold was tentative at first, careful until Grantaire’s arms wrapped around his neck, their faces inches apart, so close he could feel the uneven tempo of Grantaire’s breath.  “I mean it.  If something happens to you, I need to be there, because my choice is made.  I made it years ago, and I’ve followed you ever since.” 

Enjolras tightened his grip, leaned in to rest his forehead against Grantaire’s.  His skin was crawling, pricked with the same sickening fear that turned his stomach, brought back the scent of blood and gasoline, their taste mingled on his tongue, heavy in his throat.  He understood too well, understood just like he had the night he’d overheard Valjean and Javert talking before they left, Valjean’s voice so carefully gentle as he said, _Years ago, I asked you to stay, and you did.  If you ask me to go, you know I will._

He had understood, Enjolras could hear it in his voice.  He knew their odds; he’d heard the screams in the streets the same as they all had, seen the panic and the herds of walkers that spread wild across Paris in the early days.  He knew it all, and still he’d sat at his stubborn husband’s side, ready to stand by him though he knew where that road more than likely led.  It hurt to think of their deaths; he’d known them since he was a boy, spent enough of his early years in their house that he could remember its rooms almost as well as he could those of his own childhood home.  Still, the thought of their death was a distant thing, an uncertainty that lacked detail, blurred as a too quickly captured image.  He could be wrong, hoped he was wrong, and so his mind shielded him from any imagined details. 

Where his own fate was concerned, his mind was not so kind.  He’d been close enough to walkers to learn their stench, the heavy strength in those battering arms, even the pressure of those teeth as they closed once around the toe of his boot.  Skin was fragile, thin, soft like it was over Grantaire’s pulse where Enjolras had felt his heartbeat flutter against his tongue so many nights.  He could see it, the red of that blood splashed against their teeth, hear how he would scream until he couldn’t, like Gavroche, like so many others and _God_ , more than Grantaire thought he did, he understood. 

Enjolras was resolved to lead the others so long as he could, but _that_ , that loss wouldn’t be one he’d anticipate surviving either.  Much as it might sicken him to think of Grantaire dying on his account, how could he begrudge him the desire when he understood it so well?  With Enjolras gone before him, it could hardly be doing him a kindness to ask him to live. 

His breath hitched, everything in him shuddering away from the thought, and he pulled Grantaire’s lips to his.  The kiss was ragged, off tempo and overeager, ending with a brush of teeth and Grantaire’s cheek pressed to his. 

“Say it.  Say you won’t leave me behind.” 

What words did he want, exactly?  _We go down together, I promise, is that what you want?_   His tongue felt dry at the thought, rough and heavy.  He had his own limits, just as Grantaire did.  To speak of his own death he could have managed, but to speak of Grantaire’s left him breathless, mute.  He turned them, tugged Grantaire backwards and held on tight as his own back hit the wall, breath rushing out of him.  He bought time, nuzzled against Grantaire and relished the scratch of stubble, he heat of his breath so close to Enjolras’ ear.  When he could speak, he whispered. 

“I told you.  You have me now, and all I can offer you.  I denied us both enough.  Whatever you ask of me; it’s yours.” 

Grantaire’s fingers found a grip in hair, tight as he pulled Enjolras’ head back to bare his neck.  He groaned the minute Grantaire’s lips brushed his skin, so eager for that mouth that he arched even farther into it, the back of his head knocking rough against the wall.  It hurt, a sharp sting, and Enjolras couldn’t have possibly cared.  He slid his hand up Grantaire’s neck, thumb rubbing encouragingly against the rough line of his jaw as Grantaire worked his way along in a trail of wet kisses and soft nips.

Somewhere to his left Enjolras heard the soft clink of the bottle cap and chain falling to the floor and it was on his tongue to say _don’t lose it; it’s still mine_ , but then Grantaire’s mouth came back to his, and he remembered that it didn’t matter so much, wouldn’t matter even if he _did_ lose it, because it was true that he didn’t need it anymore.  He had Grantaire, all of him, strong and brilliant and beautiful and broken, every bit of him always there and eagerly given.      

Enjolras let his hand fall from Grantaire’s cheek, shaped his hands around Grantaire’s hips instead.  He’d watched the movements of those hips so many nights as he’d danced with other men, but that was before, and this was different.  Enjolras had watched then as a mingled mess of lust and jealousy, but he needn’t have bothered.  With those men, Grantaire had put on a show; for Enjolras, he burned.  He was far more raw and far more beautiful, every move he made the result of pure desire undiluted by performance.  He was intoxicating, more affecting than any whiskey or wine Enjolras had ever had.  (Enjolras had told him so at first, whispered it against his shoulder as they lay panting side by side on their second night together.  Grantaire had laughed, more soft than mocking as he turned his head to kiss Enjolras and murmur against his lips that clearly, he’d never been drunk enough.) 

Grantaire’s hips rolled against him, pressing into the grip of Enjolras’ hands.   His arms dropped from Enjolras’ shoulders, came down to snake beneath his shirt and take hold against his ribs.  They were both thinner now, Grantaire’s thumbs catching too easily on each bone as stroked his skin, but they had long since adjusted.  Winter had not been good to any of them.  The changes didn’t matter much though, certainly not between the two of them.  Grantaire’s hands were just as eager, his moan just as unguarded when he reached Enjolras’ nipples and felt him buck forward. 

Grantaire maintained the caress, only slowed the slide of the pad of his thumb just a little to better savor the feel of such sensitive skin pebbling at his touch.  He’d discovered early that right there, a light touch might get a response, but the rough drag of calloused fingers or the slick swipe of his tongue was enough to make Enjolras’ cock swell.  He could feel it then, Enjolras knew, rising to press against the front of his jeans, against Grantaire’s when the slow roll of his hips hit just right. 

Enjolras dipped his hands into Grantaire’s back pockets, half to palm the swell of his ass and half to jerk him forward, to pull their hips as flush together as he could.  The hard line of Grantaire’s cock pressed firm against his and Grantaire gasped, his hips jerking forward in a sharp thrust.  It was exactly his desperation that Enjolras wanted, to draw out the tension thrumming under his skin, and he showed his encouragement, fingers flexing as he bared his neck again. 

Grantaire took the invitation readily, mouth rough and hungry near the collar of his shirt until it became too great an inconvenience and he was forced to take his hands away from Enjolras’ chest long enough to seize his shirt and tug it over his head.  With Enjolras’ chest bared before him his focus narrowed, his sudden firm grip at Enjolras’ left thigh leaving no question that he was meant to hook that leg around his waist, to let Grantaire hitch him a little higher against the wall so he could- _oh God_ , his mouth was so hot, wet and perfect against his peaked nipple already drawn to further sensitivity by such pointed touch. 

Grantaire laved the skin with the flat of his tongue, suckled as he shifted his stance to take a little more of Enjolras’ weight because he knew what it would do to him, knew the noise he’d make just short of a whine, knew the way Enjolras would claw at the back of his neck.  Grantaire’s left hand hooked on Enjolras’ belt, used the hold to control the thrust of Enjolras’ hips, to better match them to his own.  His grip was firm, the steady attention of his mouth equally unyielding, though he did moan appreciatively at the sound of his name on Enjolras’ lips.   

Grantaire had learned his body, learned where to suck and linger, where to graze his teeth, where to kiss, where to simply press the heat of his palm and hold position until Enjolras arched against him.  He had learned so much, and still Enjolras was sure he didn’t know quite how often Enjolras craved him like _this_ , wild and confidant.  Here, where no one else would ever see, Enjolras could lay all else down, be nothing more than Grantaire’s lover; there was freedom in that he had been unprepared for. 

Grantaire’s mouth trailed away from his chest, left his nipples slick and over sensitized enough that the brush of Grantaire’s shirt against them made him whimper, sent a pulse to his cock that had him leaking.    Grantaire kissed him hard, chased the sound of those whimpers only to draw them back out, releasing his grip on Enjolras’ belt to instead cup the bulge at the front of his jeans.  Grantaire moaned, seemed for a moment on the verge of speaking before he kissed Enjolras again, too tempted by the brush of lips, the weight of Enjolras’ cock pressing against his hand through worn denim.  It was awhile before he could manage to surface, his fingers flexing absently as they kissed, his only concession to speech a murmur of Enjolras’ name in response to the clutch of hands at the collar of his shirt. 

“Turn around for me.”  His voice was husky, dark and strong and somehow still asking, always asking even when he demanded in a way that made Enjolras go weak.  He let go of Grantaire, fumbled with his gun belt first to ease it to the floor before unfastening his jeans and turning, acquiescing, heart in his throat as he braced his hands against the wall and waited for Grantaire to do the rest. 

Another time, he might have made Enjolras wait, might have dragged a finger slow down his spine, let a kiss against his shoulder curve into a slow smile that told Enjolras _I will fuck you, but only once I make you scream_.  He had done it before, though he’d regretted it almost immediately after when he saw the bite Enjolras had left on his own arm to quiet the noise.  (At least, he’d regretted it until Enjolras had wrapped him in close, half asleep but murmuring against his hair that it was alright, more than alright, and he had slept curled around Grantaire for a full five hours without twitching awake.  After that, Grantaire had been convinced that sometimes, sometimes it _was_ alright to push him a little.) 

That was Grantaire in careful control, each step still lead after a fashion by Enjolras himself.  For this, there had been no preparation, no premeditation in the way Grantaire yanked his jeans down to midthigh.  Enjolras heard the clink of his Grantaire’s belt, the soft, slick sound of him wetting his own fingers.  Unable to resist a look he twisted his head back over his shoulder, caught sight of Grantaire with his mouth stretched around two fingers, coating them quick and efficient.  Enjolras moaned, the spike of arousal so hot and sharp that he felt dizzy.  His cock twitched towards his belly, painfully hard, and he wasn’t sure which he craved more, those fingers in his own mouth or Grantaire’s mouth around his cock. 

The first press of fingers inside him always felt like an intrusion no matter how welcome it might be but Grantaire knew it, he knew _him_ and he anticipated, turned Enjolras to kiss him as they first slipped inside.  They were just slick enough that the burn didn’t last, evened out and faded, gave way to pleasure that only rose when he scissored them, stretching muscle, coaxing his body to remember just how much it could hold. 

Grantaire slid his fingers free, left Enjolras’ kisses, too, and though he swallowed hard in preparation, Enjolras still struggled to catch his breath at the sound of Grantaire spitting on his fingers, slicking a third before he thrust them in again.  Three was more of everything, more stretch and drag, more friction with his fingers this time not quite slick enough, more pleasure as his fingertips crooked to rub just right, just enough to make Enjolras’ shoulders heave with the effort of holding back his cries. 

He could come like that if Grantaire kept it up, the insistent stroke of the pads of his fingers, his lips on Enjolras’ neck and shoulders; it would be good, damn good, and not at all what he wanted.  Enjolras shuddered, tucked his head to the side to rest his forehead against the inside of his arm just as Grantaire withdrew from him.  Enjolras closed his eyes, refused this time to turn and look though he could hear more than the wet sound of spit, could hear with it the soft sounds of pleasure as Grantaire stroked his cock.  He tried for a moment to let his need be diluted by the irrational jealousy that came with the knowledge that it was Grantaire’s hand and not his own that drew such perfect sounds from him.  It worked, for a heartbeat, but then the moans broke for a soft “ _Fuck_ , Enjolras.”, and Enjolras moaned with him.  It was always him that broke Grantaire down to this, always, probably had been for years no matter who it was he’d taken to his bed.  It hurt to wonder, and Enjolras pushed the thought away to reach for Grantaire. 

He groped blindly, his breath catching when Grantaire found him first only to draw his hand back to the wall, though he didn’t let go.  He twined their fingers, squeezing gently as he stepped in close.  Like this the anticipation heightened everything, and Enjolras held his breath while he waited, let it out at the first brush of the tip of Grantaire’s cock against the cleft of his ass.  His hips twitched, overeager, and Grantaire gripped his hip to still him, held fast while he guided his cock in.    

Enjolras whimpered, throat constricting on a sharper sound as Grantaire nuzzled into the nape of his neck, panting. 

“I’ve got you.  I’ve got you.”

Enjolras’ hold on Grantaire’s hand tightened, grateful he could hold on, grateful even for the way it hurt just a little as Grantaire’s weight shifted to rest more against the back of his hand.  “ _Yes_.”  It was all he could say, all that mattered.  Grantaire had whispered those same words the first time they did this, Enjolras trembling from the sensory overload of such fullness in the wake of the first orgasm he’d ever had from hands other than his own.  They’d warmed Enjolras then, settled his nerves as he pressed hard against Grantaire for more of everything.  Now it was the truth of the words that shook him, drove him to turn his head and seek a kiss. 

Grantaire met him halfway, a warm hum of acknowledgment lending a vibration that Enjolras could feel on his tongue.  Grantaire had him, in every sense, and it was for that precisely that he’d gone back.  Grantaire might be set on the two of them going out together, but before they did, Enjolras was set on being sure he had no doubts.  He couldn’t change a damn thing, couldn’t take back a single scathing remark or instance of rejection, but if he worked hard enough, he just might be able to effectively erase them. 

They kissed until they couldn’t, the snap of Grantaire’s hips too sharp and rough for the kind of coordination that required.    Enjolras leaned harder on the wall, head bowing to rest his forehead against it as Grantaire licked sweat from his spine, paused between his shoulder blades to bite down.  Enjolras’ cock ached, desperate for touch he couldn’t bring himself to ask for, too unwilling to have Grantaire let go of his hand.  Grantaire’s hands were better, almost always, but right then it was easier to do it himself, to shift his weight and let his right hand wrap around his cock. 

Grantaire abandoned the grip on his hip in favor of wrapping an arm around his chest to help hold him steady on his feet when he came, and it was that very thing that pushed him over the edge, the careful possession in Grantaire’s embrace while he fucked him.  He came hard, barely managed to keep the sound that left his throat muffled to a strangled cry.  He thought, sometimes, of how in another life, it wouldn’t have been so bad a thing, would’ve meant no more than maybe Courfeyrac beating on the wall in an attempt to pretend he cared.  He wouldn’t; it’d be a competition to him, and next chance he could, he’d make Jehan scream…

In another life.  Enjolras would grumbled, Grantaire would have laughed, and in the end, complaints and all, Grantaire’s urge to show Courfeyrac up might have won him over.  Perhaps.  Enjolras would have seen it as a problem, then, but life was not that simple anymore. 

There were always the walkers, and he was left with sound forever hushed, forcibly restrained like the half sob that had left Grantaire the first time he rode Enjolras, body trembling and cock dripping as he tried his best to freeze in place, give himself a moment to adjust.   It was no hard loss, not when he could sit up like he had and take Grantaire’s face in his hands, swallow greedily as he mewled with the struggle to not come so soon.  Still, the dilution was there, and he wondered.  There was, forever, the allure of the unknown. 

Cossette had asked him, once, if that might be all his desire for Grantaire was, an endless pull toward a phenomenon he could not understand.  His mind had supplied the rest, the parallel too sickeningly fitting.  _Like a black hole, do you mean?_   Grantaire, he knew, would have approved, would have waxed poetic about the devouring of starlight, of endless suns gone dark in his shade.  Enjolras had denied her vehemently at first, rambled on about Grantaire’s intelligence and talents, gifts that largely went unused, of the loyalty and love for his friends that never wavered.  In private, at his most infuriated with the man’s maddening cynicism, he had thought once or twice that she might not be wrong, but if Grantaire was a black hole he wasn’t being drawn in against his will, and wasn’t that worse?  Or did gravity itself feel like an act of free will after so long, its bounds so solid and absolute that to follow them seemed obvious? 

He would never know, and by and large, he no longer cared.  Grantaire was more to him than unattainable, now.  He was known, solid, and Enjolras only ever felt the urge to come closer, ever closer.  Whatever the source it was plain he loved the man not the idea, not the project.  She had been wrong. 

Weak limbed from his orgasm, it took both his hands against the wall again to hold Enjolras up.  His knees quivered with the urge to buckle but Grantaire’s hold on his chest was strong, kept him from swaying on his feet as Grantaire took his last thrusts.  They were short and quick, Grantaire’s cock only sliding slightly from him with each until it was more of a deep grind and Grantaire was coming, breath heavy against Enjolras’ shoulder.  He took only a moment to rest like that, buried deep and holding on, and then he stepped back, finally letting go of Enjolras hand as his softening cock slid reluctantly free. 

The trickle of come from his ass would have itself been enough to make Enjolras' head spin a little but Grantaire reached down to spread his cheeks, thumb dipping in to glide lightly around the rim.  He knew how he must look, debauched and so clearly taken, knew how Grantaire loved it from the awed gleam he’d seen his eyes before but he couldn’t let him look too long now, knew he couldn’t keep to his feet.  Enjolras contemplated the sink to the ground, whether he should put any effort in keeping his knees from hitting hard against the wooden floor, but Grantaire relented, reached down to pull Enjolras' pants up for him. 

His fingers were clumsy at first, far less efficient with buttons and zippers than they were bare skin but he got it done.  Enjolras turned to meet him, caught Grantaire’s belt before he could push Enjolras hands away and though he meant to fasten it, he pulled instead.  Grantaire came willingly, half laughing as they ended up against the wall again, Enjolras back pressed to the boards, Grantaire pressed against his chest. 

“Y’know the bed’s not far.” 

He did, but there would be steps between here and there, a stretch of space, and Enjolras wanted first to kiss him.  They could wait to collapse until then.  They kissed slowly, full of tenderness rather than near panic.  Grantaire’s tongue curled lazily against the roof of his mouth, gentle in its exploration, and at Enjolras’ soft hum he pulled back with a sigh. 

“I take it you forgive me for doubting you.  You have to admit, I had a good few years of decent evidence.” 

“It was never you I blamed.”  His heart constricted, fresh regrets reopening.  “Grantaire, I-“

“Shh.”  Grantaire tipped his head forward for a kiss, chaste, but enough to silence him.  “It’s alright.  But I want your word.  Don’t lie to me again.  Don’t leave me here to wait for you.  I may not be good for too much, but you should know by now I will do whatever you ask.  Anything, anything but wait while the rest of you risk your asses.” 

“You’re good for more than you know.  And I never meant for you to wake up without me; I’m sorry I-”

“ _Enjolras_ ,-“

“Yes.  Yes, I promise.  We stay together.”  His hands left Grantaire’s belt without fastening it, cupped the back of his head instead as he nudged Grantaire’s head back, giving himself room to find his pulse.  It beat steady against his lips, familiar, defiantly alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at first I had to put writing this off for schoolwork, and then when I started it, it somehow took me forever? I don't even know, but I've looked at it way too much to have any kind of valid opinion on it anymore, x.x 
> 
> right now I just feel all "asfjd;lk just take it and let me get away from it", mostly because all of it was just so fucking hard to write, including the porn, and I almost never have a hard time writing porn. basically, I hope this actually came out ok; I cannot tell at the moment, lol T.T
> 
> ...I'm gonna just go shower and work on my Portuguese and not think about this fic for a bit, lmao 
> 
> (that said, up until my colossal struggle with this bit, I really love this verse in all its fucked up ness so....if you would like more from here at some point, lemme know, ^^)


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